


morality and memorability

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Doctors, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, Doctor/Patient, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-01 16:09:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8630596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Jefferson felt his fatigue weigh down on his shoulders and fell in the seat adjacent to the patient's bed. He threw one leg over the other and used the makeshift "table" to scratch notes on the margins of his still-empty paper. He looked up at his patient once before standing to hover over him once again. He noted the bruises along the side of his frail body and pondered on what the hell happened to this man before he ended up… there.Thomas narrowed his eyes and gave his patient one last look before exiting the room, turning off the lights behind him, and shutting the door soundlessly.(or, the jamilton doctor au)





	1. a new case

**Author's Note:**

> guess who's supposed to be working on their other work: me
> 
> guess who's doing this instead: me
> 
> hope u enjoy this is probs gonna be multi-chaptered and maybe just a short lil work but who fukin knows  
> also this is a fair warning: as this is a doctor au it may involve needles, descriptions of physical harm, and whatever so if this makes you uncomfortable please read at your own risk!!!

Memories are the core foundation of the world we know. Meek creatures remember the faces of their vicious predators; predators remember which prey is better for their survival. Babies recall their mothers’ faces and their mothers remember every little smile, every laugh, every cry. Without memories, who would we be? Mindless, confused, endlessly searching for something we can’t process. The prey will die by the hands of predator, predator will starve without reasoning, mothers will never recollect the smile of their own child. It tears down the connection between the mind and the soul.

Thomas has seen it happen in his own mother. She forgot where her keys went, then her address, and then she forgot her own name and her children. Every time Thomas visited her, she would greet him as if they’d never met. When he’d introduce himself, she’d wear a saddened expression as she shook her head and muttered, “I don’t remember you.” Thomas used to cry when he visited her because _he_ remembered her, everything about her, and she couldn’t even recall his face even though it was so like her own. But that was right before he graduated medical school. After that, he never had the time to visit, and soon he had stopped altogether. He blamed it on his busy schedule, how he never got to fit in anything but work in it 一 but he knew that he just didn’t want to feel that disappointment and shame he felt when his own mother thought of him as just another stranger.

Once he graduated medical school and actually became a doctor, he’d hardened his exterior; he became more cynical, more alienated. He’d always been asocial, but he’d become so bitter without knowing that he was constantly compared with Dr. House from that medically-inaccurate hit TV show. Needless to say, he hated that show.

“Doctor Jefferson, we have a case for you that just came in.” James Madison, a newer, more guileless doctor said as he ran to come to Thomas’ side. He was about a head shorter than his foreperson, but he was very well built in that he must have exercised a lot. He was a very ironic doctor in that he was a hypochondriac, but that certainly didn’t stop him from getting a doctorate of medicine. He moved the file that he was holding from the crook of his inner elbow to his hand. “We have a patient that came into admission an hour ago with multiple lacerations and bruises. He’s gone unconscious due to severe trauma to the brain.”

“If he has only lacerations and bruises, why is he in the main hospital and not the emergency care unit?” Thomas continued to walk, but at a slower pace as to not tire his co-worker.

“His brain trauma is… severe, to say the least,” is what Madison replied. “We don’t know how yet, but it’s done something to his brain. It might be a lesion, or he might go into a coma within today or so. Regardless, we can’t risk it and leave him there just in case we need to do some testing. Or, rather, if _you_ need to do any testing; he’s your case now.”

Thomas looked down at the file in Dr. Madison’s hands, and Madison promptly handed the thin portfolio to him. It had two sheets of paper. Thomas, growing slightly irritated from the lack of information, flipped between pages as if it would unlock some secret, hidden page with needed information. “No family history, no emergency contacts…” Thomas hit the paper with the back of his hand lightly. “All we know is that his name’s Alexander Hamilton, as if that’ll give us the key to what the hell happened to him.”

Dr. Madison sighed, taking the portfolio back from him. “I didn’t say that the case was an easy one.” He and Thomas walked briskly to the information desk, where Madison got a clipboard from one of the nurse practitioners. “Here’s his room number and a blank medical information sheet. Maybe once he wakes up, he can tell you something that’ll help you.” Jefferson took the clipboard and read the room number, nodding first at the paper then at Madison.

“This is going to be both a shitshow and possibly a waste of my time.” The nurse practitioner who was nearest breathed an almost inaudible laugh, but Madison gave him a critical look.

“You’re a doctor; you’re here to save lives. Isn’t that why you became one in the first place?”

Thomas stood a little straighter, looking down at Dr. Madison with a sudden, cold look. “Why I’m here is none of your concern, doctor.” He snapped the clipboard closer to his chest and, giving Madison one last look, turned on his heels to the elevators. His wide and brisk pace made Madison’s attempts to chase after him futile and soon enough, he was across the hallway and pressing the down button furiously fast as he watched Madison walk towards him with a purely exasperated look. As the doors opened, he stepped in with one of the visitors that was leaving. Madison stopped in his tracks and stood with his right arm akimbo.

“Thomas Jefferson, you are the pettiest doctor alive, and I work with Burr daily.”

Thomas only raised his free hand to flip the other doctor the bird.

As he sat in quick silence with the stranger beside him, he lifted the clipboard and pulled out a pen, quickly scribbling down the one thing he knew about his patient.

 **Name:** **_Alexander Hamilton_ **

As the elevator doors opened to his floor, he stepped down at once, passing by some coworkers that he knew well, and others he wished he didn’t. One of the latter was Aaron Burr. He was a paradox wrapped in an oxymoron with a side of irony, as Madison loved to put it: he was a cool hot-head, a quiet loudmouth, a rude optimist. Everyone that was relatively close to him knew that he was impudent and stiff-necked, but he still imposed the least realistic façade that the world’s ever seen. To patients and patients’ visitors, he exuded a “polite” and “stoic” personality, though he just looked snobbish and patronizing. Even so, he wasn’t the best at his job. He differed by Jefferson by the well-known fact that Dr. Jefferson didn’t hide how cynical he was, and that Jefferson actually did his job right. Sure, he might make a couple of his patients or their visitors angry with a comment he might have said, but they still leave satisfied with their health.

Speaking of the devil, Jefferson made quick eye contact with Burr and inadvertently gained his attention. Burr left the conversation he was in, momentarily confusing the nurse practitioner he was informing, and walked to speed with Jefferson. He opened his mouth and just like that, Jefferson was irritated. “Dr. Jefferson. Did you hear about the John Doe patient in room-”

“Yes, Burr, I’ve been assigned to his case.” Jefferson tried to speed up in order to lose his trail but, like a conniving pest, Burr quickly fell back into speed with Jefferson. “He’s just another patient, not some celebrity. Now I have to check on another one of my patients, excuse me.” Jefferson made a sharp turn into a random room and closed the door behind him. The patients and visitors occupying the room looked at him, expecting for him to say something about the patient’s medical health. Jefferson leaned against the wall and gave them all a collected look.

“I apologize for interrupting,” said he to them, “I’m trying to avoid one of my coworkers.”

He counted to ten in his head and excused himself, stepping back into the hallway and looking down both sides of the hall to check for any Burr-related activity. Silently thanking fate that he was nowhere to be found, he continued to the near end of the hall, checking his clipboard to confirm the room number and opened the door, stepping in slowly to make little noise. To his surprise, the curtains were moved to the sides and a nurse practitioner was hovering over the patient, attaching them to the heart rate monitor and looking up to see that it was working. During the process, she locked eyes with Dr. Jefferson, and promptly jumped, yelping lightly and accidentally hitting her foot on one of the chairs beside the bed.

“I’m sorry,” she said sheepishly, applying the last attachment of the monitor to the patient. “I’m new.” As he walked closer, Jefferson could read her tag: E. Schuyler.

“No need to apologize,” he dismissed. He, too, leaned over the idle patient, watching his even breathing with a furrowed brow. “How are his vitals?”

“They’re looking normal, there are no complications,” replied the nurse practitioner, turning the screen for the doctor to analyze. “If he doesn’t wake up soon, should we start feeding him with a feeding tube?”

“Only if he doesn’t wake up or if he has some kind of damage that impairs his eating,” replied Jefferson, pulling a small flashlight out of his pocket and leaning over the patient’s body to peel one of his eyes open. Turning on the flashlight, he flickered the light in his eye to check to see if his pupils would constrict and dilate. Clicking the flashlight off, he sighed and looked at his empty medical assessment form. “Did you get any information on this John Doe?”

“Besides his injuries, no,” Schuyler replied, looking at the battered, bruised body with a saddened look. “I’ll be sure to page you if anything new should happen, doctor.”

“And I the same, Schuyler,” said Jefferson. The practitioner nodded and, after tip-toeing across the wires of the monitor, walked out of the room. Jefferson felt his fatigue weigh down on his shoulders and fell in the seat adjacent to the patient's bed. He threw one leg over the other and used the makeshift "table" to scratch notes on the margins of his still-empty paper. He looked up at his patient once before standing to hover over him once again. He noted the bruises along the side of his frail body and pondered on what the hell happened to this man before he ended up… there.

Thomas narrowed his eyes and gave his patient one last look before exiting the room, turning off the lights behind him, and shutting the door soundlessly.

* * *

 

“I’m not saying that it’s improbable,” Dr. Madison said as he slathered an abundance of hand sanitizer on his hands, “It’s just that the possibility of-”

A shrill ringing interrupted Madison’s speech, and it was Jefferson’s pager. Normally, it would sound off his notifications as a would-be peaceful melody, but this “tune” was nowhere near peaceful. Jefferson almost panicked because he hadn’t received an emergency alert in so long, and said his apologies as he ran towards the elevator and jammed the button several times, his tension increasing with every second of waiting. Unfortunately, the elevator was a bit full, but that didn’t stop him from pressing his floor button incessantly until the elevator closed and began to move. Once the doors opened, he sprinted out of the tiny enclosure and darted past unsuspecting nurse practitioners and visitors, even Burr as he watched Jefferson’s sprint with unbridled curiosity. As Jefferson burst through the door of his patient, he was met with the sound of restrained groaning and a large object - most likely the bed - shaking and hitting the wall. Schuyler, the practitioner he’d met the day before, came to him in a hurry, looking absolutely terrified.

“Doctor, the patient woke up screaming and attacked one of the nurse practitioners,” she said in a hurried and purely horrified tone. “We’re trying to sedate him, but he keeps attempting to attack more practitioners.”

Jefferson went to the patient’s bed, where he was met with a sight to behold. The patient, who once looked like a corpse, was screaming at one of the nurses who’d grabbed him by the arm and attempted to place him back down on the bed and hold him there. The second patient, the one with the sedation, was merely watching in fear. The patient was spitting curses and demands to be released, as well as some other, more prevalent remarks:

“Where the hell am I? Who are you people?! What are you trying to do to me?!”

Jefferson sprung to action, grabbing the patient’s other arm and effectively holding him down. The latter thrashed violently and broke free of the practitioner’s hold, and Jefferson jumped on the bed to pin both of the patient’s arms down, shouting “Sedate him already!” as he fought to keep the man still.

“If you put that fucking needle in me, your medical licence isn’t the only thing you’re going to lose!” said the patient as the nurse nervously cleaned the skin to insert the needle. Soon enough, she’d injected the sedation into the patient; the man screamed, faltered, and fell into a silent sleep. Thomas, who was kneeling on the bed and breathing heavily, took a moment to process what’d happened before climbing off the bed as he groomed his coat.

“Oh my goodness,” muttered Schuyler. “What was that?”

“He might have gone into a small episode of psychosis,” the doctor replied. “What happened to the practitioner that he attacked?”

“She went to get a first aid kit for herself, but I’m sure she’s fine,” Schuyler sighed, kicking one of the legs of the bed lightly. “If his head trauma caused a psychotic episode, what else could it have caused?”

Jefferson shook his head as he, again, watched the patient sleep; though this time, it was in a much different pretext. “I don’t know,” said he, and he brought his hand to the side of his face and rubbed his cheek and beard, sighing. “What the hell was he saying before he got sedated? ‘Who are you, what are you doing to me?’”

Schuyler shrugged, watching the heart rate monitor fall back into its regular pace. “That could mean anything.”

Dr. Jefferson sighed again and clicked his pen, writing again on the margins of the paper. He still had nothing written down on the patient’s information.

Hopefully, when he wakes up again, he’ll be able to finally crack the code.


	2. menial memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jefferson’s furrowed brows lifted and he twisted his hips to look at his patient with an aghast look. The patient looked back at him with an equally shocked expression, and the two shared a moment that would be akin to a mystery at the brink of solving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y y yo y yo yo what time is it
> 
> MCFUCKING TERRIBLE WRITING TIME!

After the attack inflicted on one of the staff members in the hospital, patient Alexander Hamilton was handcuffed to his bed by his left hand. Jefferson was ordered by the Dean of Medicine to stay by him, which he thought was absolutely absurd, but did so anyways. It took the patient thirty-two minutes to wake from the sedatives, and when he did so he didn’t scream nor fight. He opened his eyes and let out a meek whimper, looking down at his own battered body without moving his injured head or neck. Jefferson stood at once, and the patient in turn gasped and tried to jerk away from him. He made an audible cry doing so, and Jefferson cursed to himself.

“They haven’t hooked an IV tube to him yet,” he said to himself, and the patient gave him a fearful look.

“W-who are you?” he tried to move his left hand, but it got caught in the cuff. He looked at it with a more horrified look, then looked around the room again. “Where am I?”

Before he could answer, nurse practitioner Schuyler walked speedily into the room, looking at the patient, seeing his consciousness, then at Jefferson with a fearful eye. “Sir, I heard noises and I came to investigate. Is there-”

“Get an IV in here and hook it up to him,” Jefferson said, eyeing his patient warily.

Alexander Hamilton flinched under Schuyler’s gaze and whispered, “Please, I don’t know where I am. I don’t know who you are… who  _ I am _ .”

Jefferson’s furrowed brows lifted and he twisted his hips to look at his patient with an aghast look. The patient looked back at him with an equally shocked expression, and the two shared a moment that would be akin to a mystery at the brink of solving. Jefferson looked in his eyes and saw the same confusion he saw in his own mother.

“You don’t…” Jefferson swallowed. “You don’t remember anything at all?”

The patient laughed bitterly, as if he were insulted. “All I remember is being in someone’s room, then being beat to near-death.” He spread his arms wide and looked at his body with a mixture of what looked like comic disgust. “What I  _ don’t _ know is, for the fifth time or so,  _ where the fuck I am _ . If you’d like to give me a lowdown, Poindexter, that would be much appreciated.”

Jefferson narrowed his eyes and curled his lips in frustration. Turning on his heel, he made way towards the door. “Schuyler!” he called out to her as he put his hand on the door handle forcefully, making the practitioner jump. “Forget what I said about the damn IV. Leave him to writhe.”

Schuyler made a strangled noise, twiddling her thumbs. “But sir, he needs-”

Jefferson opened the door. Before he left, he hissed, “Do whatever the hell you want, I’m going smoke or drink or something else that’s irresponsible and vile.” As he closed the door, he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding in. Shaking his head, he placed his hand on his forehead and prayed to the high heavens that he could be granted with a moment - no, a  _ sliver -  _ of peace.

Then Burr came and ruined it all. “Patient giving you a rough time,” he phrased like a question, but it sounded more like a comment from experience. Jefferson indulged in his haughtiness and groaned.

“Yes, damn it. Why can’t my patients be less excited and quieter? Why do my patients have to… attack nurses and spit at me and curse my entire lineage? Why do I have to deal with Alexander Hamilton: human disaster?”

Burr laughed as if they were reminiscing together. “You know, I’d have to agree. If I weren’t a doctor I think I’d downright fight back.” Burr gave a hearty laugh, then stuck his hand in his full coat pockets, a sure sign that he was starting to become uncomfortable. Even then, he smiled plastically and gave a curt nod. “Anyways, I need to go now.” He turned quickly and left without a goodbye.

“Jefferson!” Dr. Madison was behind the counter where the doctors who weren’t busy usually sat, and he stood up with his palms on the counter when he saw his accomplice. When seeing his cross face, Madison faltered but then gave a Jefferson a confused look. “You look terrible. Did you have a conversation with Burr or-” Madison gave another look that was validly sour. “Was he talking about fighting his patients? He’s been doing that lately and it’s really fucking creepy.”

Jefferson laughed and pushed himself from the door with the tips of his fingers. As he groomed his coat, he said slyly, “Stole the words out of my mouth. The hell are you doing here, anyway?”

“Going home,” Madison replied. He grabbed some spare papers that were on the counter. “Dolly has something ‘important’ to tell me, she said. I don't want to miss it, whatever it may be.”

“Well, good luck.”

Inside the patient room, Elizabeth Schuyler walked back and forth as she listened to the man handcuffed to the bed cursed and fumed. She had no real opinion on Dr. Jefferson because – whether it be a blessing or curse – she’d never worked with him before then, and had only heard what others have said about him.

“What an ass,” said the patient. “I swear… I feel bad for you, you know,” he directed the comment to Schuyler, who snapped her head up from the tiles on the floor to give him a questioning look. He continued on. “Having to work with him daily, I mean. How’s he like when he’s not asking stupid questions and handcuffing patients?”

“Well, I don't know him personally,” Schuyler began, crossing her arms in a non-hostile way and scratching her arm. “But I know that he does take his job really seriously. Because of that, he doesn't have much acquaintances except for Dr. Madison. He’s kind of cold to everyone else.”

The patient scoffed and attempted to sit up, which only caused him to wince and shrink within himself. At the sight of his pain, Schuyler yelped and her hands flew up, though she never stopped pacing at all. “Mr. Hamilton, are you- oh my, let me- oh  _ dear- _ ” She scanned the heart rate monitor and made way towards the door, muttering “I need to get an IV and hook it up to you…”

She walked out of the door with ease but, in her momentary worry, her forehead and nose collided with Dr. Jefferson’s back. He turned and looked at her expressionlessly and took a step forward, giving her access to go without hitting him again. She apologized and went to the counter to ask for the keys to the IVs.

“Well,” said Jefferson, stepping closer to Madison, “tell Dolly I said hello.”

Madison shook his hand and pulled him in for a one-handed hug. “I will. See you tomorrow, Thomas, and stay the hell away from Burr.”

Thomas threw his head back and let out a bark of laughter. “See you, James.” As he watched his friend leave, he twisted his head to look at the door behind him that was left ajar. Alexander Hamilton, his patient, was looking at him with a curious eye. Jefferson turned back around and hit his closed hand on the counter lightly, his mind reeling. Did the man really know nothing? How ironic, he thought to himself, that he was given  _ this _ patient, of all of the sick and injured patients in the vast hospital. They looked nothing alike, but he was reminded of his mother when he used to visit. Their minds had failed them, or they’d failed their mind, thus they’d been trapped in that state of loss that Thomas had so equally feared and despised.

Alexander Hamilton, the man in question, was leaned against the terribly-uncomfortable pillow of the hospital bed. As he stared at the ceiling, he tried to think of anything,  _ something _ , but all he could think of were terrible. Him being attacked, his sour encounter with that doctor, and something else completely different. In the memory, he was with a woman in a quiet, dark shelter; he must have been younger because she was looking down at him even as they were seated. She raised a shaking hand to his cheek and smiled at him, beaming yet uncertain.

The woman spoke, though not in English. She sounded wise and fluent, though she was young — she could have been his mother. “Alexander, please listen to me. You are going to hear a lot of things about me, about your father, and some of them may be true.” She dropped her trembling hand from his face and grabbed his hand. “But listen well to when I tell you that everything that I have lived for and done was for  _ this family _ . I love you so much, Alexander.”

Alexander also remembered some menial memories that seemed to be during that time, like stocking a pantry with some cans and eating with the woman and a young boy that looked like him. He also remembered not a memory, but a face: a round and blushing face with a smattering of freckles and a wide smile. But that was all, really, and he remembered nothing else.

Alexander sighed to himself and pulled the thin blanket closer to his frail body. He figured that his doctor would come back, he had to come back, and hopefully the nice lady that was pacing ever-so irksomely. He feared that if he thought about himself more, he would find something he wouldn't be so fond of. He needed stimulation, a distraction, something to get him away from himself.

Though it would only be a matter of time before the vestiges of his mind fell – plummeted, even – to a halting crash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls tell me if the format looks wonky cause if so i'll try to fix it


	3. business deals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a beat of silence, and Alexander looked at his lap. Hovering over his desk was a clear, plastic cup that was once filled with water. “Doctor Jefferson? Will I ever get my memories back?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> while writing: omg this is the best thing i've ever written someone give me a pulitzer i DE M AND IT
> 
> while proofreading: wtf this is the worst writing in the world burn it pls
> 
> anyways here's a new chapt + a new characters + feels

Thomas took a step out of his car door and hoisted himself to his full height. Stepping out and pushing his door closed, he brought his hands to his chest and groomed his dark grey suit. He looked up at the sky; clouds loomed over the blue sky, making it but a pale grey, and the sun was covered but it was still shockingly bright out. It looked as if it were going to rain soon. Thomas kept that in mind as he walked across the parking lot to the tall building before him. He looked up at the emblem that was shown above the front doors – _L'HEXAGONE CORP_ – and pushed through the doors, the cool air and scented candles of the front office hitting his face as the walked through the glass doors. Before he even walked over to the desk, the receptionist opened her mouth to speak.

“Dr. Jefferson, sir-” said she, and some of the appointed clients turned their heads- “Dr. Motier is waiting for you.” The woman picked up the telephone headset and placed it to her ear, punching numbers into the display screen. “His office is at the top floor. Can’t miss it.”

Thomas thanked her and continued walking to the elevators, bending down slightly to press the button on the side to go up. After a few moments and a small-sounding _ding,_ the metal doors screeched open and Thomas stepped into the wax-smelling walls of the elevator. As he ascended endlessly to the top of the building, Thomas sniffed the thick, odorous air and scrunched his face in repulsity. He wondered how his colleague could stand the stench and rubbed his temples until the door opened. Setting his hands down to his sides, he moved forward into the secretary’s space. There was no secretary, only a young boy who was swinging his feet from the counter. Thomas looked at the boy at the counter, his face splitting into a wide smile.

“Georges!” said Thomas, opening his arms wide. The boy in question, Georges, squeaked and hopped off of the counter, his smile wide as well. Thomas bent down to hug the boy and spoke to his godson in fluent French. “ _My angel, how are you?_ ”

“ _Oncle Thomas!_ ” the boy wrapped his arms around the man’s neck and all but cried in joy. “ _Papa is waiting for you, he said that it is important._ ”

Thomas straightened at once as he remembered as to why he was there. Touching the boy’s cheek with a fond smile, he turned to the door labelled, _Dr. Gilbert Motier,  Pharm.D._ Opening the door quickly, he was met by the sight of Gilbert du Motier, the marquis that hailed to La Fayette, sitting as his desk covered in papers and files, he himself staring at them all with his hands together like he were praying with his fingers touching his lips. As soon as he heard the door close, Dr. Motier looked up wordlessly and, with a slow movement of his hands, set them down to the table and looked up at his friend with a tired face.

“Thomas,” he began, his voice not yelling but just the right amount of projection, “I am not a man to skip around a subject, so it is better off that I start with the reason why you came here.” They settled in an idle silence before the Frenchman spoke again. “Your hospital has set out a notice to us that you refuse to make any more business transactions. I imagine that that is because you are making deals with our opposing company, Albion?”

“No,” said Thomas at once, sitting down at one of the chairs and putting one leg over the other. “To be fair, we have done the same for Albion. But _believe me_ when I tell you that I am purely against this decision. The inflation of intravenous solutions has risen in the past year and trust me, your company is our best bet. But-” Thomas, who was slowly leaning forward with every inflection of his speech, fell back to the comfortable seat behind him. “the Dean of Medicine had the final word and I couldn’t change his mind in time.”

Dr. Motier narrowed his eyes and scoffed. “Thomas, please. I’ve known you since medical school. I know your fact from flattery in the blink of an eye.” Motier then sighed and added, “But I trust you. I will talk to my advisers before talking to your Dean of Medicine.”

“I implore you to, and I myself will talk to him about his decision.” Thomas stood from his seat and stuck his hand out for Dr. Motier to take. The latter did so with a smile on his face and the two shook hands; partly out of a deal, but mostly because it was something they just did. Thomas laughed and pulled him to a hug and spoke, “Well, Georges is getting much bigger than when I last saw him.”

“Nine years old,” Motier supplied, and fell down to his seat in mock fatigue. “They say that the teen years are the worst, but I’m not too sure. He’s starting to have a liking to… _collectibles._ ”

“Collectibles? Like how?”

“He has 49 Beanie Babies and counting.”

“Oh, shit.”

The two conversed for what they thought was a short amount of time but was really an hour, and Georges had come into the room at one point or another with a blue elephant pulled into his arms. Soon enough, though, Thomas had to leave. As he stood from the seat, his tall and lanky legs beginning to grow tired, he smoothed his torso once more and thanked his old friend for talking with him. Dr. Motier stood at once, holding a finger up before digging through his desk’s drawer. Pulling out a rattling bottle, Motier gave Thomas a small smile as the latter faltered.

“Gilbert you…” Thomas breathed out a laugh and stared at the medicine bottle. “You didn’t…”

Dr. Motier grabbed Thomas’ hand and put the orange container in it, using the former’s other hand to both close the hand and hold it. “Come, now, it’s the least I can do for her. Take it, Thomas, and give it to her yourself.”

“But I haven’t visited her in so long,” Thomas choked out, shaking his head as he gripped a little tighter on the bottle. “She won’t remember me. I know she won’t.”

“Then let’s try this,” Gilbert compromised, “and maybe she will.”

Thomas thanked him again and kissed his cheek, turning then to do the same to his godson. With a final goodbye, he exited the office and went back to the foul-smelling elevator.

Thomas opened his hand to examine the pill bottle in his hand. With his thumb, he read the all-too familiar name atop the labelling: _JANE RUDOLPH JEFFERSON: TAKE TWO TABLETS DAILY._  Thomas sighed and let his arm go limp, the pill bottle still in his hand. He decided it was best that he just drop it off or something, because he really did not wish to see his mother. It wasn’t because of _her_ per se, but Thomas didn’t want to feel that rejection, that insignificance, of being her son. It was like a blow to the chest every time he even thought about her.

The elevator door opened. Thomas  walked out quickly and made no comment as pushed through the front doors, out of the building, and to the parking lot.

* * *

 

“Jefferson!” Dr. Madison all but ran to his cohort with yet another file in hand, panting slightly. Thomas looked at the manilla folder once and back at Madison. The latter handed Jefferson the folder and pointed to it. “We ran a background check, of sorts, on patient Alexander Hamilton.”

Thomas sighed in almost-relief and opened the file. He skimmed through the words until he came to the emergency contact list — _John Laurens, Hercules Mulligan_ — and slapped the file closed, going at once to his office.

“You’re welcome, you know,” Madison called after Jefferson as he made his way to his office (that was thankfully on the same floor, because he’d gotten sick of walking). Jefferson made a left turn towards the end of the hallway and pulled his keys from his coat pocket. Opening the barely-used office door with some sense of self-satisfaction, he leaned into the doorway to flip on the lights before going straight to the telephone. Finally, after all this work, he could finally work out who Alexander Hamilton really was.

The cops. The cops would find out who he was, not Jefferson. Because it wasn’t _his_ job to do that, it was merely to mend the patient’s physical wounds and make sure he doesn’t harm the staff of the hospital. That’s _it._ He wished he could do more, he really could, because other than the random clinic shifts he has to do, he actually cares about and actively puts his work into his patients (no matter what Dr. Madison said). It sucked that he was a cynic, but that didn’t mean he didn’t care. Sighing and shaking his head, Jefferson dropped the folder to his desk and opened it to a number, punching the according numbers into his office phone.

After a few rings, there was some shuffling around on the other side of the line before a tinny voice spoke. “Hello?”

“Good morning,” said Dr. Jefferson as he leaned back in his chair, “this is Dr. Thomas Jefferson from the Liberty Hospital and I’m calling for-” He squinted and read the small font on the paper. “John Laurens?”

“Yes, that’s me.” There was more shuffling. “May I ask why you’re calling?”

“Yes, I have your name under one of my patient’s emergency contacts, his name is Alexander Hamilton-”

“ _Holy shit!_ ” The shuffling increased and there was even a crash. “Are you serious? Alex is with you?! Is he okay?!”

“Yes, but…” Jefferson cleared his throat and continued. “He has multiple cuts and bruises to the skin and a severe head injury, and it looks inflicted.” The other end was silent. “He also has little to no memory about his life or the incident which occurred.”

The line was silent for a while until Laurens whispered brokenly, “He doesn’t… Does he remember me?”

Jefferson shook his head, although he knew no one could see it. “I don’t know.”

“I…” Laurens laughed, though it sounded a bit more than a sob. “I’m sorry. Can I visit him?”

“Of course.” Jefferson gave him the hospital’s address and Alexander Hamilton’s room number. While he gave this information, Laurens made noncommittal noises, whether they be mere mumbling or another laugh-sob mixture. For the sake of the man in question, Jefferson ignored this and focused instead on the house plant that was left oh-so neglected in the corner of the office. He really needed to water the poor thing.

“Thank you so much,” Laurens said through the line, “You know, we were looking everywhere, we thought he had died.” John Laurens laughed bitterly. “Last time we saw him, he was with one of his old college friends. But- I mean, I-” It was silent; it was likely that he was shaking his head. “Thank you. I would tell you more than that but… Alex was always better at words than we were.”

Jefferson smiled and soon the conversation ended. John Laurens promised he’d visit, and thus Jefferson promised that he would update on anything that happened. And with a click, the call ended. Jefferson sighed and rubbed his beard with the palm of his hand, staring at the wall for a moment before standing and leaving the office, the folder left open on the desk.

“Mr. Hamilton,” Dr. Jefferson began as he walked in the room, his infamous clipboard at his side.

“Mr. Hamilton?” the patient scrunched his nose. “Please, call me Alexander; I’m not that old.”

“Right.” Jefferson cleared his throat and continued. “I’ve come into contact with one John Laurens, a supposed friend of yours who was in your emergency contact list, and he seems to visiting soon.”

“John Laurens,” Alexander echoed. “It sounds familiar but I don’t recognize it that well.” There was a beat of silence, and Alexander looked at his lap. Hovering over his desk was a clear, plastic cup that was once filled with water. “Doctor Jefferson? Will I ever get my memories back?”

Jefferson looked to the floor. “It’s likely that you won’t. But, with rehabilitation, you might.” He slowly looked up to his patient’s eyes. He look almost devastated.

“I think-” Alexander scoffed, “well, I don’t think I want them back.” Looking at the face of confusion and sadness on his own doctor’s face, he continued. “I don’t know if I can _recreate_ everything I had before. Or I don’t want them. I mean, what does it matter? The only reason why I’m here is because someone wanted me to be.”

Dr. Jefferson only looked at him sadly. Is that how his mother felt before her memory had completely washed away? He didn’t want to think about it, but here he was, and it didn’t make it any better that his own patient was relaying these thoughts to him. Slowly, Jefferson began to daydream, though this “dream” was like a radio with no channels; it was like he was in his own mind, with no thoughts at all.

Alexander noticed this and wore a concerned look. “Uh… Doctor?”

Jefferson snapped out of his reverie and looked at Alexander. “Yes?”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I should be asking you the same.”

“I mean, I’m not,” Alexander said, almost doing the same as what Jefferson was doing. “I don’t know who I was and someone from my life is visiting. I don’t want it to be awkward, I don’t want them to cry or talk about who I was or whatever. I don’t want to find out who I am.” Yet another beat of silence. “But physically, yes; I’m doing well.”

Jefferson went over to the seat on the side of the bed and pulled the television remote beside him. Flipping from channel to channel, he finally settled on a cartoon channel. From how Alexander was watching the scenes, he had no idea what any of it meant, so throughout the couple of hours or so Jefferson was softly explaining all of the shows and the characters. Soon enough, Alexander became contented, and his head inched to the pillow before hitting it with an almost instant sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things i love: this au
> 
> also: donepezil is distributed by box but i invoke my ARTISTIC LICENSE


	4. a potluck of feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Thomas and Alexander have their reunions, both good and bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> common trope for my fics: georg inviting thomas or alex to dinner because martha made food
> 
> also i'm reading war and peace by leo tolstoy and why is everyone such a dick to pierre he doesn't deserve this

John Laurens was a quaint and charming man in that he seemed to exert ardor in every moment. In that moment with Alexander, though, he was in dissonance. His hands, long-fingered but not disproportionate, were twitching in the direction of Alexander as he stood with a stiff air in the hospital room. His small shoulders were slumped and his face, while still wearing a smile, was taut and sad. Alexander felt pity rise in his gut; whether it be for John Laurens or himself, he wasn’t sure.

John Laurens spoke, his voice strong but nevertheless faltering. “Hey, Alex.”

Alexander tried to lighten the mood with a smile, though it only seemed to make John even more melancholy. “Hey… John, is it?”

“Yeah.” He sounded deflated. “My name’s John.”

There was an awkward silence for a while before Alexander heard some sniffling. John was silently crying, shaking his head, and furiously wiping tears from his cheeks though there was only a tear or two shed. Alexander was caught under a loop – he felt something in his gut telling him that _no, this is wrong, he shouldn’t be just sitting there like a fool_ – but instead of doing anything, he said, “I’m sorry that who I used to be is gone, but I can’t help it. May I ask what… What was I to you?”

John Laurens shook his head again, sniffling once. “Don’t apologize, none of this is your fault. And I don’t know what I was to you because… I loved you, Alex. I loved you, and I was going to tell you, and now…” John dropped his hands to his sides, looking defeated. “And now you’re here, but you’re _gone_.”

Alexander felt uncomfort crawling up his back. “Well,” he reasoned, “maybe we can just be friends while I heal and-”

“Alex, do you _swear_ you’re not there?” John looked at him with a wary eye. Alexander could tell that he was beginning to get angry; there were no physical signs, but his voice was beginning to become venomous. “Because this is all too weird, the timing seems so... Alex, if you’re really still here then I swear to-”

“I’m _here,_ but I’m not here.” Alexander tried to explain it to John but it was more to himself; he didn’t understand exactly who or what he was, either, and had no real answer to John’s question.

“What do you _mean_ , for God’s sake?” John’s voice was beginning to raise. “You want me to be _miserable?_ You want to tear us apart? _Jesus_ , Alex, I’ve just confided in you!”

Alexander wished he could leave the bed, but he was far too weak. Seeing this man – handsome as he was – with a face twisted and contorted with rage, scared Alexander for some obvious and other more unknown ways. Nevertheless, Alexander shrunk in himself but showed no emotion on his face to betray that fact. Instead he just replied, “I don’t think I know what you mean.”

“You’re lying about all of this, aren’t you?” John bit back. “You’re lying, just like you’ve always been!” John, in the midst of all of his emotions, felt tears prick in his eyes again. “You lied about Maria, you lied about where you were going at night — I know damn well you weren’t at the _movies_ , Alexander, who the fuck do you take me for? Now, how do I know you aren’t just _faking_ some sudden ‘amnesia’ just to get rid of me?!”

“ _Faking_ amnesia?” Alexander felt his blood begin to boil. John had no right to say that, no matter how angry he was; Alexander lost his cool façade and gave John a hard look. “I wish I _was_ faking it, because then I wouldn’t be here with a fucking death wish that I don’t remember wishing for. If you think that this is all a lie and that I actually _want_ to live this way because your feelings got hurt, then fine. I don’t care. Just don’t associate with me and don’t expect me to forget it.”

Alexander expected John to yell or stomp out of the room and slam the door, but he instead laughed bitterly. “You always were good with your words, weren’t you Al?” He laughed again and bit his lip, looking down at the ground with an unreadably solemn expression. “I guess I’m just… I miss you. The old you.”

“I think the old me is gone,” Alexander muttered back to him. “But if I come back, I’ll talk to you about what I’ve done.”

“Of course.” John went to the bed where Alexander lay exhaustedly and reached out for his hand. He retracted as if he’d been hurt, twisted his lips to a frown, and sighed. “I’ll see you soon, Alexander.” And with that, he left the room without a moment’s notice. Alexander watched him go with a somewhat guilty feeling. He left all of his friends, his lovers, behind without a moment’s notice, even if it probably wasn’t his fault.

Or was it? What happened that day that gave him such a major injury? John told him that the last he saw him, he was going to a friend’s house. Who was it? Did _they_ do this, or was it some stranger who tried to kill him? So many questions that could have been answered if he would have just _remembered_ , but he didn’t and it killed him that he didn’t have any answers. As Alexander sat alone, both literally and metaphorically, he stared down at his lap and silently wept, watching his tears fall from the tip of his nose to the hospital gown that was a pale green turned dark with the dampness of his tears. He sniffed loudly and exhaled his breath, looking at himself in disgust before reaching his hand around the side of the bed in search of the television remote. As he flipped it on, he couldn’t follow the story of the show; still, he watched on, not for the plot but rather to keep himself distracted from his own thoughts.

Thomas, who was down the hall on the way to the room to check on Alexander, was typing furiously on his phone sending messages to his boss. He loved the man – he was the person who had landed him this job ages ago, after all – but damn it if he weren’t as stubborn as a mule.

 _Damn it, Washington,_ he said in his head as he sent yet another text. Currently, Thomas was trying to convince his boss to reconcile with L’Hexagone because, honestly, it _was_ their best choice, he wasn’t just sugar-coating with Dr. Motier. He just needed to convince his boss that it was.

 

 **From: George Washington,** **_12:47 PM_**

_I still don’t believe you, but I am willing to talk with Dr. Motier if he pleases._

_Also, Martha made dinner tonight and she’d love to have you over. I’ll clear your schedule for the day, so you can’t say no._

_See you tonight!_

 

The last text was followed by a series of emojis. Thomas groaned, smiled, and laughed – in that order – and put his phone in his pocket. His pager beeped and he lifted it from his pocket before dropping it again and walking down the hall to patient Alexander Hamilton. Instead of meeting his eye, though, he met Schuyler's. She didn't look nervous or shy like she usually did, but instead wore a sad frown. In her hands was a food tray with a small meal, apple juice, and a pudding cup. Alexander was seated on the bed as usual, but his eyes were glued to the television screen.

"Sir, he's refusing to eat," the woman said, who Jefferson found out was named Elizabeth. Schuyler set the tray down on the table at the side of the bed and sighed. Her hands fell to her sides. "I don't know what to do, I'm sorry."

Jefferson looked at the two once and moved near Schuyler to the tray, setting a hand on her arm in the process. "It's alright, I'll take over. Thank you, Schuyler."

When Schuyler left the room, Jefferson picked up the tray and looked at Alexander, though the latter didn't seem to have been paying attention. He was watching another television show, much like when he last saw him, but he was either very invested in it or he wasn't paying attention to it at all but merely the white noise. His eyes seemed glassy as he stared at the hues of the television.

Thomas cleared his throat lightly. "May I sit?"

Alexander broke his gaze for a quick second as he looked at Dr. Jefferson, then moved to make more room as he flicked back to the television. "Go ahead."

Thomas sat down beside him, setting Alexander's tray on his lap. "You need to eat, Alexander."

"No."

"Alexander," Jefferson repeated, "please eat."

Alexander shook his head. "I can't, or I don't want to. I just-" he sighed and looked down at his hands. "I feel horrible, leaving behind all of these people who cared for me. They didn't ask to lose me." Alexander sniffed, and like that, his eyes welled with tears. He looked up at Jefferson and whispered, "I feel so guilty."

Thomas placed his hand on Alexander's arm and spoke sincerely. "Even if they may miss the 'old' you, that doesn't mean that they'll stop caring for you. If you really mean that much to them, then I can promise that they don't think of you that way." Thomas lifted the sandwich cut and gave Alexander a pleading look. "Please eat, Alexander. You need to heal and recover. When you do, _then_ I can get out of your hair.”

Alexander gave Dr. Jefferson a grateful and kind look before gingerly taking the sandwich from his fingers and giving it a tiny bite. He did recoil a bit because of his complete lack of appetite, but after a few more bites he was eating it normally, even reaching for more after a while. Thomas and Alexander sat in comfortable silence, watching the cartoon re-run marathon that Alexander was in the middle of.

“So what’s going on in this show?” Thomas narrowed his eyes. “I don’t understand the plot.”

“Okay so-” Alexander shifted, not taking his eyes off of the television- “Those two are twins, and they’re visiting their relative in Oregon… he’s like a con artist or scammer, and he owns this tourist trap of, like, Bigfoot and Nessie and whatever…”

* * *

 

John Laurens dropped his bag to the ground as he stepped into his small, shared apartment on 167th street. Looking at the tolerably-lit table and sofa, he sighed and laid a hand to the wall as the other took off his shoe, then the other. As he took off his second shoe, his phone vibrated and illuminated to reveal a picture of his friends. Hercules Mulligan, tall and stout but with a heart of gold, and some beard on the bottom of his chin. In the picture, he was wearing a wide smile and had an arm wrapped around John’s shoulder. Before the picture, he’d muttered a joke in John’s ear, which was why John was seen both laughing and shrugging his shoulders up because Hercules’ breath had tickled him. John always smiles when he thinks of it.

And right next to him was Alexander Hamilton. Shorter than the two and wearing an oversized hoodie that seemed to engulf and consume him. He wasn’t smiling or laughing at the camera, but at the other two. His hands were in his front pocket and his hair was up in a messy ponytail. John didn’t smile this time. He wasn’t angry at Alexander, just that he didn’t have him. They’d all known one another for years, and he didn’t want to lose what they had together, above all. He missed this, he missed _his Alex_ , but he didn’t know if Alexander would even want to talk to him after he all but screamed at him for no reason. He wanted to go back and apologize, to go see him again and tell him everything.

It would only be a matter of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> got a terrible love triangle and don't know what to do with the plot? polyamory will get the job done! for only $19.99, polyamory can heal complicated relationships, unrequited love, and unhealthy jealousy! buy now and receive a FREE trope repeller! that's right! a $40 bundle for only $19.99! polyamory: the love bunch!


	5. man in the mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking a quick right turn into Alexander’s room, he faltered. Alexander was sitting up on his bed, his arms crossed and his brows furrowed. Jefferson, setting the tray down, sat on the edge of the bed with a curious expression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MIDTERMS ARE OVER!!! CIEUX!!!! I AM FREE!!!!
> 
> i did really good on my exams - nothing lower than a B, thank heavens - but the ONE class that i'm super worried about hasn't sent the test results back and i'm stressing(tm) but i got a 100 on one of them!!! what!!!

Aaron Burr was like a mystery book so terrible that it’s not cliché, it’s just too confusing with no real conclusion. He never spoke of any friends or family, and always acted like you’d said something that reminded him of a secret you don’t know. Even his walk was unlike any you’d see: it looked completely normal at a glance, but if you looked close enough, you could see that he was perpetually tense like a wound-up toy. He was a very confusing, long-winded list of metaphors that wouldn’t make sense in any other context. Needless to say, Thomas didn’t like him. He seemed… violent, almost.

Nevertheless, Dr. Jefferson passed by him once in the hallway on his way to Alexander’s room. He was going there with a tray in his hands (as he’d realized that Alexander only ate when Jefferson was with him) and seemingly looked very busy, because Burr made no effort to talk to him as he usually did. Though that might have been because he looked preoccupied himself; as he was walking through the halls with a feverish pace, he shared a glance with Jefferson that seemed to convey panic. What he was so worried about, Jefferson hadn’t found or cared to find – he didn’t want to spill the apple slices he had on the tray.

Taking a quick right turn into Alexander’s room, he faltered. Alexander was sitting up on his bed, his arms crossed and his brows furrowed. Jefferson, setting the tray down, sat on the edge of the bed with a curious expression.

“Who’s that doctor with the buzzcut and bad attitude?” Alexander said, unconsciously taking an apple slice and taking a bite.

Jefferson barked a laugh and scoffed. “You mean Burr? What about him?”

“He just did the weirdest thing,” Alexander replied. “I was watching TV and he walked in thinking it was another patient’s room, then he looked at me like he’d seen a ghost and ran out of the room.”

Jefferson shrugged. “Maybe he was embarrassed? He almost never messes up, so I suppose it would come as a shock to him.”

“I don’t know, it just seemed… unnatural, I guess.” Alexander looked at the sandwich that was on the tray hungrily before scooping it up and taking a bite out of it. He thought a little more while he chewed and ended up swallowing too early, the chunk of bread and peanut butter going down a bit too hard. “I guess I’m just overthinking it.”

“Well,” Jefferson started, but his mind was filled with the same thought. Aaron Burr is a mystery, and with this just happening his mind is filled with even more thought and logistics. What was that specific reaction for? He might be an ass, but he is very cool-headed; in all the years they’d worked together, he’d never reacted like that to something humiliating. It’s almost as if it were personal.

Jefferson thought for a moment and looked at Alexander. He was watching him with an anticipating eye.

“ _Well?_ ” Alexander echoed.

Jefferson continued, opening his coat to pull something slender out. “ _Well_ , you said a couple of days ago that you get bored here often, even with the TV, so I decided to bring something to you from home.” Handing the object to Alexander, Jefferson watched the latter tilt the object gingerly in his hand, run a finger on the edge, and finally give Jefferson a puzzled look. Jefferson shifted excitedly and explained further. “This is a tablet. You can read some books here, or watch some movies and shows that aren’t on the television here and here; basically, it has everything you’d want and need at your fingertips.”

Alexander, after getting this new information, now stared at the sleek object with wonder. “You really didn’t have to do this.”

“I know. That’s what makes me so nice.”

Alexander rolled his eyes with a smile and looked down at the tablet again, pressing one of the buttons which made the screen light up. It had the time and date, and a colorful background. A feeling that Alexander had yet to know the meaning to welled up in his chest and he looked back at Dr. Jefferson. He felt so comfortable with him, in a familial sense. In all, he felt nice around the man because he knew he was safe. Of course, that might’ve been because he was in a hospital, a beacon of safety and well-being, but who knows.

Soon, Jefferson was called to another floor for another one of his patients and left with a quick goodbye. Alexander was alone again. He began to think again, something he’s been much more prone to do all of a sudden, and looked down at the tablet with a terrified glance. He suddenly felt repulsed, not at the tablet but rather at himself, and put his hands at both of his sides and pushed himself forward. Slowly but rushedly, Alexander pushed himself completely off of the bed and almost fell to the ground. His knees were so weak they were wobbling, his feet felt an inclining pain with every millisecond of his standing, and every cut and bruise on his body seemed to react terribly to the sudden change of gravity. Still, he pushed on, reaching to his side and gripping tightly on the IV stand to the point where his knuckles turned white. With an air of a meaningless and panicked fear, he trudged forward to the bathroom located across from his bed. He pulled the door open with weak hands and fumbled for the light.

Alexander turned his head up to the mirror on the wall behind the sink and _recoiled_ at the man he saw in it. Long, unkempt hair, a growing beard that looked uneven, and deep, sunken eyes with colorless irides. But that wasn’t what made him really scary: it was the fact that when he looked at this appalled man, he couldn’t recognize his face. It took him a while to even realize that it was _him_ that he was looking at — he looked so young, even in his state, and in a fit of emotions he watched his own face redden and his eyes swell as he sobbed slowly. He just kept staring at himself and crying, his hand soon going over his mouth and his knees finally giving out. He fell to the ground and curled within himself. His sobbing became progressively more violent, and it took what seemed like hours for him to get his own breathing to even out. Even then, he still laid there, now on the uncomfortable floor of the hospital room’s bathroom, thinking about nothing and everything.

* * *

Jefferson walked in the room expecting Alexander to be sitting on the bed with an atmosphere of excitement, grabbing onto his newfound tablet with wonder and what have you. He expected to see Alexander look up at Jefferson and bring a hand to his temple and push the hair behind his ear like he usually did when he walked in. It was charming, to say the least, whenever it happened, and it was never purposeful.

But, in a heart-stopping, panicked realization, his patient wasn’t on the bed at all. For a bedridden, injured man, he sure seemed to disappear without a trace quicker than a street magician. Jefferson looked down at the tablet on the bed once over before walking to the other side of the room, calling his patient’s name softly.

“Alexander?” he called tentatively, his hands raised slightly as he rounded around the corner of the bed. He looked under it before remembering that no human could fit under any circumstances. He raised his head again and looked at the bed again as if he would magically reappear. He didn’t. “Alexander, are you here?”

“I’m in here,” said a small voice coming from a closed door in front of the bed. Jefferson stood to his full height and pulled the door open, seeing nothing until he looked down.

Alexander was on the floor. Thankfully, he didn’t look too hurt, but instead he was sprawled across the floor like he was the Vitruvian Man, eyes staring at the ceiling tiredly. Jefferson made a disgusted look with the curl of his lip and remarked, “As a doctor, I should advise you that these floors are absolutely vile and you should get up immediately.”

“As a man on the floor,” Alexander said back almost automatically, “I should advise you that I am too weak to get up on my own… and am in need of a shower.”

Jefferson bent down at once, lifting Alexander’s torso with one hand and grabbing his hand on his own. With some difficulty, he finally stood, standing lifelessly with a hand holding to the IV stand and the other pulling Jefferson’s arm to him to lean on. Jefferson lead him to the bed and without thinking, bent down to lift his patient almost like a bride and set him down on the bed, pulling the thin blanket over his small frame.

“Since I am not a nurse practitioner,” Jefferson explained, taking the tablet and setting on the table beside the bed, “I will call one over to get you showered.” There was a beat of silence while Jefferson gazed over Alexander with a concerned look. “What were you doing in the bathroom? Did you need to use the bathroom? You could have pressed your call button, you know.”

“No, I know. I just…” Alexander looked at the bathroom door and narrowed his eyes minutely. “I don’t know why I went on my own, I thought I was able to.” That was a lie because he knew he knew he couldn’t; but it was the only excuse he had because he himself didn’t know why he went in there.

“You should really call for help next time,” Jefferson pressed on, sitting on the corner of the bed. “I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.” And with that, he laid his hand on Alexander’s leg lightly, then tapping it softly before standing and exiting the room.

Alexander stared at where Jefferson grazed him until his eyes began to hurt and his peripheral began to darken. He ten pushed his head back further into the pillow and closed his eyes to sleep even though the sun was still shining through the blinds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> l'chaim, friends! hanukkah is soon!!! eight more days!!!


	6. photos of memories past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he continued to think to himself, the door clicked open and in walked Jefferson. He was carrying his clipboard as he always did, but no pen. As he walked in, he noticed that Alexander was using the tablet and smiled wide. Alexander nervously escaped out of the photos and left it with nothing open, looking up and giving Jefferson a weak and trembling smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes my writing style changes so dramatically whenever i read different writers like today i was ready lèon tolstoï and dam... i love that man but damn if he doesn't completely fuck up my writing style
> 
> it's pissing me off now cause you can _see_ it change
> 
> hanukkah's in 4 days tho turnip

Alexander, to say the least, was not doing well. Physically, he was fine; he was recovering at the right pace and he was beginning to wane off of the morphine. Schuyler, the nurse practitioner, had talked to him about seeing a physical therapist provided by the hospital to get his strength back. In the mental aspect, however, he’d seemed to be drowning in all of his senses like a rose doused in water. Everytime he’d so much as thought about his past life - whatever that even was to him before - he’d shake and whimper and his eyesight would go blurry. Everytime he caught a glimpse of himself in a reflection, he felt repulsed. He stared at the wall more than anything else and he hadn’t touched the tablet since he’d gotten it. One day, though, he gave it a long gaze before reaching over and grabbing it one-handedly.

He pulled the tablet into his lap and pressed a button, turning it on, then slid his finger across the screen. He tapped through the folders, looking at all of the little icons with tiny names or descriptions under them. There was a camera – which Alexander refused to indulge in further – some games, random applications that Alexander knew not of, and a colorful icon that read _Photos_. Curiosity sparked, and thus Alexander clicked on that icon specifically. It opened and photos sprang up, and Alexander looked at the mass of pictures overwhelmingly before clicking on one.

It was a little girl and Dr. Jefferson. The girl in questioned looked young, maybe in her ones or twos, and she was wearing a bright grin and her eyes were scrunched tight, though they were blocked by some strings of tightly-curled hair. Her small hands were clasped tightly around her clothes, and behind her was Jefferson. He was holding her and she was resting on his hip, and he in turn had his arm wrapped loosely around her side. They were wearing somewhat matching pajamas – blue and white, respectively – and they were in a dimly lit room with winter lights strung across the walls. Jefferson, as dangerous as it may be, was holding an eight-candled holder in his hand not occupied with the young girl. Only one candle, the centermost and tallest, was lit. Jefferson was absolutely _beaming,_ something that Alexander had never seen. With his curiosity emitting from every pore of his being, Alexander flipped to another picture. Two candles lit. Then another, and again, and a couple more times until there was a picture of Jefferson and the girl smiling softly with all of the candles lit. It gave Alexander some inexplicable feeling, seeing the pictures, and it calmed him down. He kept flipping through the pictures, often of the young girl, and some of Jefferson with some woman. His wife? Sister? Regardless, she seemed to be everywhere in the pictures, whether it be in the picture directly or indirectly.

Then there was a video. Alexander tapped the play button and the screen came to life, and a feminine voice behind the camera spoke, “Okay, go.”

“Hi, my name is Martha Jefferson!” the young girl exclaimed. “And this is _A Brand New Day._ ” The girl paused for a moment and some music began to play, and she swung back and forth to the fast beat before opening her mouth to sing. She had a beautiful voice and sung the song well, but at one point she faltered. “I forgot the lyrics,” she said over the music.

Then Jefferson came from behind the camera and slid behind the girl, kneeling to her and hugging her small frame from behind. He began to sing as well until Patsy could pick back up from where she was comfortable, and soon Jefferson had stood and began dancing with the girl, spinning her and smiling wide.

“Now, Thomas,” said the woman behind the camera, “this is Patsy’s audition video!”

“I had to start over either way, Mama,” said Patsy, spinning to face the woman and camera. There was some shuffling and the music turned off. “I didn’t know the lyrics!”

“You can choose another one, Patsy,” said Jefferson – or Thomas. Patsy nodded her head in agreement and hummed the scales as she thought of another song. Thomas looked at her and shook his head with a fond smile, then flicked his eyes to the woman behind the camera. “She’s grown so fast, Martha, I can’t believe it…”

The video cut off.

Alexander wanted to look at more pictures; whether it be curiosity or otherwise, he felt like he _needed_ to know Dr. Jefferson. He doesn’t look at him like a doctor anymore, it seemed, but as family. Sure he may or may not have been a dick when they first met, but over the week that Alexander has been recovering, he’s gained such a familial bond with him that he feels inclined that he know him better. He’s lost in his own mind, and he’s the only person besides nurse Schuyler that’s stayed with him for whatever reason. John screamed at him, accused him, left him. And, most likely, he was the only other person that could have made him _him._ He felt delusional, almost, at how much he needed someone. He seemed to be starved of someone he never remembered.

Though that wouldn’t matter once he’s healed. He would most likely go with John and whatever friends he had then and mold his new life with his old — it would be terrible, truthfully, because he didn’t want to know who he was before, he wanted to be someone _new._ The _new_ Alexander Hamilton with a clean slate, no past mistakes, no terrible memories. Would he ever see Dr. Jefferson again? Most likely, no, unless he somehow injured himself again. Or someone else did.

As he continued to think to himself, the door clicked open and in walked Jefferson. He was carrying his clipboard as he always did, but no pen. As he walked in, he noticed that Alexander was using the tablet and smiled wide. Alexander nervously escaped out of the photos and left it with nothing open, looking up and giving Jefferson a weak and trembling smile.

Jefferson frowned. “Are you okay? You’re getting pale.”

“Yes,” Alexander said too quickly, “I am fine, I’m just in a bit of pain. It’s uncomfortable.” A direct lie. He disgusted himself with every word he spoke.

“I apologize, but there’s nothing I can do to to your morphine levels; you’re just starting to wane off of it, and abusing the substance would most likely give you some kind of addiction.” As Jefferson spoke, Alexander barely listened. He only smiled, which was not only inappropriate in the context of the sentence, but looked painful as it only reached his eyes to portray a dissonance in his emotions. Jefferson was going to say more, because it was not in his interest for Alexander to fall into the dark hole of substance abuse, but seeing this torn man’s expression caused him to set his clipboard down and sit on the bed as he always did before speaking to Alexander seriously and personally. “Alexander,” he spoke in a murmur that made it all seem so disclosed, “Is something the matter-”

He was interrupted by sobs. More specifically, Alexander’s sobs — He had become red in the face, shook with emotion and tears, and tears rolled down his cheeks like a leaking dam. The gaiety in Jefferson’s smile and eyes left fleetingly and he stood at once, setting his hand on Alexander’s shoulder. This only seemed to make him sob harder, and more tears fell, but he only reached for Jefferson’s sleeve and tugged it weakly, attempting to pull him closer but doing nothing. Jefferson complied nonetheless, taking the man and taking him in his arms, feeling the man’s wet face press against the fabric beneath his breast pocket and stayed there, rubbing his back and occasionally grazing his hair until the man calmed down. Neither made an effort to move.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” asked Jefferson in a tone unheard by Alexander prior. The latter shook his head for he didn’t know enough and felt that it was more of a camel’s strained back than anything specific. Jefferson hummed and rubbed his back once. “That’s fine, you don’t need to. Have you eaten yet?”

Alexander shook his head again and Jefferson continued. “Then please allow me to leave to get you food. I don’t want you getting any weaker.”

There was no speaking or movement for a beat before Alexander lifted his sopping face from Jefferson’s chest and replied, “Very well.” He looked down as Thomas straightened himself and, setting his hand lightly on Alexander’s shoulder. He turned on his heel and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

When Jefferson brought back the hospital food, Alexander was seated upright against the multitudinous pillows and had the tablet in his lap. At the sound of footsteps, he looked up unsmiling. Jefferson smiled, however, and set the tray of food down on Alexander’s lap as he pulled a chair beside the bed. He then pulled the bed’s table over the bed and moved the tray there. Alexander refused to speak and Jefferson did not push him to. Jefferson only watched him pick at and eat his food with a disparity.

He couldn’t help but feel that whatever _this_ was, it was his fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes thomas is jewish if u were asking... i would do christmas because tjeffs is a christian-deist (but daveed diggs, if i'm not wrong, does identify as jewish) but i don't know anything about christmas except for what i'm told because this commercial, christian-heavy country is so adamant on shitting on other religions and their holidays and bUT OKAY ENOUGH ABOUT THAT EH


	7. jane jefferson sr.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas didn’t come for small talk, he didn’t come to see an old “friend” either; nevertheless, he gave the woman a smile and replied, “I have been well, thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sup hambones
> 
> sorry for the inactivity but i wanted to take a break for hanukkah and i guess i got a bit side tracked... but here's the newest chapter! hope it doesn't suck it's only 1.3K words :^( sorry dude bros

Thomas gripped the pill bottle tighter in his hand as he stared at the building before him. With a deep breath, he made a step towards the front door. His then clammy hands gripped onto the door handle and, with a somewhat aggressive push, he opened the door to step inside the serene and deathly quiet building. The room was almost completely empty except for the small receptionist at the front desk. The woman in the front flicked her eyes to the man before her and smiled lightly. She had remembered his face.

“Dr. Jefferson, is it?” said the woman softly, an almost playful smile gracing her lips. “I believe you have passed medical school by now, right? How have you been?”

Thomas didn’t come for small talk, he didn’t come to see an old “friend” either; nevertheless, he gave the woman a smile and replied, “I have been well, thank you.” Frowning a bit and looking down at his hands, he added, “I’m here to drop something off for Jane.”

The woman only frowned with him, though hers was a more confused and curious expression. “Jane? I don’t believe you’ve ever called your mother Jane before. She is your mother, isn’t she?”

Thomas looked up at her with a hurt yet slightly angered eye. “She is my mother,” he retorted, “but I’m not her son.” It sounded strange and perhaps a bit surly, but it was completely truth for Thomas — his mother did not, more than likely, remember that she ever had a son at all. Not his name, his face, not what he was like. Thomas was just a stranger.

The woman at the reception desk gave him a sad, pitying look. She herself refused to push further after that response. “I’m sorry. She’s in room 213; next hallway over, seven doors to the left.”

“Thank you.” And with that, Thomas left the room quickly. The hallway was eerily silent, much like the calm before a storm would be. He counted the doors as he walked through the narrow corridor, finally finding room 213. Thomas stared at the door for what felt like its own eternity before shaking his head slightly. Thomas one-handedly opened his coat pocket and dropped the pill bottle inside before opening the door.

As the door opened slowly, it looked as it was empty. Thomas almost closed the door and left before he heard a low but strong voice speak, “You may come in.” Thomas faltered, his hand still outstretched and grazing the brass doorknob. Composing his figure habitually, Thomas pressed his fingertips against the door and pushed it open further as he entered the room.

His mother was looking at him with a lost smile. Polite as ever, she gazed at him as she would a stranger she’d pass on the street and made no means to show an uncouth behavior. She put her hands in her lap and said, “I would suppose that you are my son, no?”

Thomas looked at her with surprise. “Yes,” he answered, “I am. Do you… do you remember me?”

“No,” Jane spoke, her smile saddening and soon dropping. “I only assumed. One of the nurses brought this picture-” she paused to turn to a small frame on the nightstand beside her bed. “She said it was of my children, and that one of them dropped it off as a gift.” She turned back to Thomas. “Was it you?”

Thomas shook his head. “It must have been one of the others.”

Jane, in turn, chuckled. “Well, I have so many of them, I don’t think I’ll find out which any time soon.” She looked at the frame again and picked it up, gingerly running the pad of her thumb across the glass encasement. “I look at this as much as I can. I want to remember, I really do. I want to write down everything I know so that I can remember, but I don’t remember a thing to begin with.” Jane smiled at all of her children in the photo. “You’re all so beautiful.”

Thomas walked to his mother and sat down beside her, looking over her shoulder to look at the picture. It was fairly new, but even then, Thomas looked completely different. He was with all of his siblings, and he beaming next to his older sister and his younger sister, his arms wrapped around the two as he surpassed the both of them with his height. All of the siblings were lined up from oldest to youngest, and Thomas was the third. Looking at the picture, Thomas smiled almost sadly. It was the last picture they had taken together, dated four years back.

“That’s Jane,” Thomas began, pointing to her tall frame. “She’s the oldest, and now she’s an engineer.” Jane, the mother, nodded, looking at her daughter’s face in the slightly-grainy photo with a smile.

“She is beautiful,” Jane commented.

“Beautiful, yes. And brilliant.”

Jane nodded and smiled a little wider, and Thomas continued. “That’s Mary. She co-owns a charity to bring attention and help to people in the autism spectrum. Then there’s me. I’m a doctor and advisor to the Dean of Medicine.”

Thomas continued with all of the siblings, watching how Jane was trying desperately to take in all of the information. After a while, though, she began to frown and looked down at her lap. After Thomas finished, she looked up at him and muttered, “I’m so sorry, but I can’t remember everything. I…” Jane’s eyes welled in tears and she looked away. “I’m sorry I can’t be there for the family. Sometimes I forget I ever had one.” Jane finally began to cry, her tears falling quickly but sparsely. “You all deserve someone better. Someone who can truly  _ be _ your mother.”

Thomas shook his head, the back of his eyes beginning to ache as he held back tears. “You  _ are  _ our mother,” he said in a broken whisper, taking her dainty hands in his. “You’re  _ my _ mother.” As though she were made of glass, Thomas lifted her hands and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. He looked up at her again and lamented. “There was a time where I was resentful of our circumstances. I felt like I could never get you back. But I want to change, mother. I want to be here for you and help you.”

Thomas felt the pill bottle weigh in his pocket and he looked down at it, thinking for a moment. He then pulled it out, releasing one of his mother’s hands, and revealed it to her. “Your doctors are setting up a prescription on a drug called Donepezil. If you feel any symptoms, please tell anyone.”

Jane, her mouth pursed in disbelief, stared at the bottle. “Is it safe?”

“Completely. Now, it won’t cure you, but it’ll help you retain more memories. I’ll talk to your nurse about it.”

Jane reached and grabbed the bottle, tilting it in her hand to read the label. Her top lip twitched as she read and afterwards she merely sat on the bed, looking over at the picture of her children on the bed sheets.

Before Thomas left, he looked over at his mother one more time and said his goodbyes, his lips smiling almost sadly. His mother smiled back, knowing she most likely won’t remember this interaction in the slightest, and spoke a quick goodbye back. Thomas closed the door behind him and noticed Jane’s nurse beside the door, looking at him with a completely distraught face. Thomas inclined his head and said only, “Her prescription is on her nightstand. I’ll be back soon to check on her.”

And with that, he walked out of the hallway, the lobby, and the front doors, his chest panged with a certain sadness that was both stinging and numb. Thomas pulled out his keys and unlocked his car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why has no one made a post apocalyptic au that would be so good
> 
> ... i'm making that au after this fic is done i call DIBS!!


	8. if a buh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops this is short but i kinda like it this length
> 
> also: GUESS WHO'S SEEING HAMILTON IN CHICAGO OVER SPRING BREAK!!!!!!! THIS DUDE!!!!

“I’m… what?”

Alexander stared at the practitioner with a dumbfounded expression, as if he didn’t hear her the first place. He knew he had, but he still wasn’t sure. Schuyler gave him a sad smile and adjusted the plastic bag in her hands.

“You’re being discharged,” she said again. “You know that we can’t fix your memory,” she added, her words seeming to come out wrong to her, “but we’ve done everything to heal you physically. We called your emergency contact again, Mr. Laurens, and he will come later tomorrow to pick you up. He told us that he has a room for you to stay in and he is happy to take you in until you are ready.” Schuyler looked down at the bag in her hand and lifted it, looking at Alexander with a sad smile again. “These were the objects found on your person in the clothes you were admitted in as well as the clothes themselves. It’s not much, but you might need them.”

Alexander took the bag silently and looked at the contents inside. There was a phone, a ballpoint pen, and his clothes. They were stained with blood. Alexander looked at them expressionlessly, though he felt like screaming, crying, ripping his hair out even. He was sure that John was a good person and their last interaction was just nerves and hurt, but he didn’t want to live with him. He didn’t want to go into the real world, lost and confused like a fog had covered his eyes and mind. He felt an embarrassment, a pitiful feeling, bang against his chest as he pressed at the phone through the plastic screen. A picture flashed through the material; it was Alexander and John and someone he couldn’t recall. They were all smiling, and Alexander was being hugged – clinged to? – by the man he didn’t remember, and their heads were very close to another. It was a nice picture, but perhaps it might have been better if he had an attachment to the people that were in it.

“Can I talk to my doctor?” Alexander said to Schuyler, his face looking worn and fearful. “I want to thank him.”

“He’s quite busy,” Schuyler said, her lips twisting to an anxious frown, “which is why I came here instead of Dr. Jefferson himself. I’ll tell him to come as soon as he’s available.”

Alexander nodded solemnly, his gut twisting. “Then I would like to be alone; thank you, Ms. Schuyler.”

Schuyler nodded and turned on her heel, each click of her shoes echoing throughout the now silent room until she soon got to the door. Schuyler walked out of the room to the busy hallway and found herself sighing in annoyance; it was the busiest day of the week, it seemed, and Dr. Jefferson was “busy.” She quickly maneuvered through the people loitering in the hallway and all but raced down the hallway to Jefferson’s office. She considered barging through, but she felt that would be too much. She knocked instead.

The door slowly opened to reveal a disheveled and sick-looking doctor. Jefferson looked at his coworker blearily and said nothing, only blinking lethargically. Schuyler was started at his appearance at most, and at least was marvelling at the irony of a sick doctor.

Jefferson narrowed his eyes at her. “What do you need?”

Schuyler didn’t answer the question, and instead asked one herself. “Are you okay?”

“Peachy keen.” Jefferson gave her a tired look. “What do you need?”

“Mr. Hamilton would like to see you, sir.” Schuyler responded. “I told him you were busy, but it’s-”

Jefferson clenched his eyes shut and shook his head slightly. “I was busy _yesterday_ , sure,” he retorted. He opened his eyes and looked at Schuyler with a stoic eye. “I just said that because I didn’t want to be bothered today.” He looked at something behind Schuyler, looked back at Schuler, then leaned back into the room to close the door.

Schuyler extended her arm to stop him. She narrowed her eyes at him as he did to her and questioned accusingly, “Are you drunk?”

Jefferson scoffed. “I was _yesterday._ ”

Schuyler’s lips pressed together to make an “O” shape, and she pursed them to not curtly at her superior. With a lowered voice, she said, “But it’s Hamilton’s last day before he is discharged. He wants to thank you before he leaves.”

Jefferson stared behind Schuyler’s shoulder once again, his eyes looking around suspiciously, until his eyes trailed off with someone walking behind her. He looked back at Schuyler and muttered, “I’ll be there in a few minutes. Can you bring me his discharge papers once they’re available?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Great, thanks.” And with that, Jefferson opened his door completely and trudged out of the dark room, closing the door behind his back which locked automatically. Without another word or glance, Jefferson walked down the hallway, took a left, and walked a bit more until he faced his patient’s door. Upon opening it, he felt a chill wash over his body.

 _Those damn hospital air vents_ , he thought as he closed the door behind him. They waste so much money on air conditioning, it seemed, that they had virtually no money for anything else. Jefferson had a terrible feeling when he was in the room; whether it be his blinding headache or a spark of magic, he wasn’t sure. As he made a feignedly-confident step towards Alexander behind the curtain, he spoke aloud his complaints about the hospital temperature. “I for one, enjoy the warmer weather,” he said, turning against the bed to grab the clipboard filled with his own notes and scribbles. He turned slowly but kept his eyes on the paper. “It reminds me of spring back in Mont-”

A strange sound was emitted from both the patient and the doctor. Alexander, covered in horrible and new bruises, a cut running down his arm, and matted hair, was breathing heavily and groaning incoherent words as blood trickled down his mouth and spilled down to the hospital gown. Jefferson, upon seeing such a catastrophic state in his patient, uttered a scared and shocked noise from between his lips. His clipboard dropped to the floor and at once, he was at Alexander’s side, pressing the help button on the side of his bed rapidly.

“What-” Jefferson was at a loss for words, for once, as he looked at the mangled man before him. “Who did this, Alexander?!”

Alexander turned his head to look at Jefferson, his eyes alight with adrenaline and pain, and his whole body trembled as his breathing became ragged. He tried to speak again, but he winced in pain and shrunk into himself, his face and arms twitching with every second. Jefferson pressed a hand to his arm, which was bleeding profusely, and detached himself from his side at once, rummaging through every cabinet he could find for medical gauze.

Alexander made another sound, his voice strengthening as he looked at Jefferson. “ _Buh_ ,” Alexander grunted. He shut his mouth, swallowed hard, and repeated the grunt again and again. " _Buh. Buh. If a Buh.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HA u thought i was going to update without ruining your lives with a plot twist well SORRY


	9. just visitors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t know,” was all Jefferson replied, his eyes full of fear and confusion. _I don’t know_ was not something he usually said, so it was a surprise to Schuyler upon hearing it.“I was walking in and I saw him here. He tried to say something but… _fuck._ ” Jefferson looked over at his patient sparingly. “I don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait hhhh.... i bought overwatch and.... it's taken over my life.... someone help before it takes over my life
> 
> (might just write a lil somethin somethin for it winkwink)
> 
> anyways enjoy this drama bomb!!

“Dr. Jefferson, we all got the call. What’s-” Schuyler stopped in her tracks, thus stopping everybody behind her, as she gazed at the scene before her with a horrified expression. Mr. Hamilton was battered and bruised and he was breathing heavily as he gripped tightly onto his bandaged arm. There was medical gauze on his forearm that looked fairly new and yet was stained with blood. Jefferson was beside him but facing away, upping his morphine levels through his IV bag while sparingly glancing at his patient for any signs of discomfort. This, of course, was fruitless, because uncomfort was practically Alexander’s name at this point.

All of the nurses came to Jefferson’s aid at once. One tried checking Alexander’s pulse, the other ripped off his blanket to check for any more damage. Schuyler went to Jefferson and asked him anything and everything about what had happened.

“I don’t know,” was all Jefferson replied, his eyes full of fear and confusion.  _ I don’t know _ was not something he usually said, so it was a surprise to Schuyler upon hearing it.“I was walking in and I saw him here. He tried to say something but…  _ fuck _ .” Jefferson looked over at his patient sparingly. “I don’t know.”

Schuyler, who was usually timid and polite, pressed against the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. With a frown, she questioned, “I was only gone for five, maybe ten minutes. Who would do this in such a short amount of time?”

“They must have been in the hospital already,” Jefferson replied. He was beginning to calm down, and in doing so became cold sober. He inclined his chin quickly to motion to the door. “Call security, have them search around the floor for any suspicious figures.” Schuyler nodded her head and left the room quickly. Jefferson turned his head to the practitioner examining the patient and asked, “What is the damage?”

“Nothing too severe,” the practitioner motioned their gloved hands to the patient’s body. “It’s mostly bruises, but that cut you bandaged may need some stitches. Thank you for doing that, by the way; it’s possible that he would have gotten an infection if you hadn’t stepped in in time.”

Jefferson nodded in acknowledgement and looked over at the patient. Alexander eyes were shut, and for a second it looked like he was asleep. He might as well have been; Jefferson looked away and looked back at who he was speaking with. “I’m going to call his emergency contacts, but for now be sure to take him off to get stitches. Who is scheduled for surgeries today?”

“From my knowledge,” replied the practitioner,”It’s Doctors Jay and Monroe.”

“Then ask Madison to take over, I’m sure he’s not busy.” Jefferson was already at the door before concluding, “Make sure nobody comes in here without my permission. Schuyler’s excluded.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jefferson swung the door open and walked into the clamorous hallway. There were nurses and visitors alike looking at an altercation between two men and two security guards, and it looked to be quite tense. One of the men, squirming and kicking in their grasp, let out a shot: “Let me go! I just want to see my friend! His name is Alexander Hamilton, alright? We’re  _ visitors! _ ”

Jefferson finally took notice to the two men and walked briskly to the two guards, his hands up to diffuse the situation. One of the guards locked eyes with Jefferson and said, “We saw these two young men exiting the floor just now. Schuyler asked us to look for suspicious figures on or around the floor.”

_ Exiting? Then how are they here for Alexander? _ “It’s alright,” Jefferson dismissed, waving his hand to the side, “I know them. They’re the patient’s emergency contacts.”

“Suspicious figures?” Laurens eyes narrowed at Jefferson, then widened. His grip on the security guard tightened. “Doc, what’s- is Alex alright?”

Jefferson did not answer, but merely gave a nod to the security men. The visitors were let go and, with no hesitation, left alone in the busy hallway with Jefferson. The one he didn’t know – tall, large build, contrastingly calmer than John Laurens – extended his large hand.  _ Calloused _ , Jefferson noticed.  _ Scarred. _

“We’re sorry for the scene we’ve made,” the man chucked, a light  _ heh. _ “I’m Mulligan.”

“Doctor Jefferson.” Jefferson shook his hand. His polite smile fell. “I’m sorry to inform you that Alexander is not available at the moment.” He could look them in the eye — he found a spot on the floor to suffice. “There’s been an attack… Alexander is being examined now, and he will not be awake when he is finished.”

Two faces before him contorted. John’s with anger, Mulligan’s with shock and sadness. John’s hands balled to fists and his face and neck flushed; his eyes narrowed again, now at unbridled rage. “ _ Attacked!? _ You let one of your patients alone and they were  _ attacked? _ What the  _ fuck _ kind of a hospital is this, who the hell does that?”

_ How did he know Alexander was alone? _ “I’m sorry, we were only gone for fifteen minutes. He was supposed to be released today, he was finally healed, I don’t-” Jefferson let out a quick sigh, pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what happened.”

“I’ll tell you what happened! You let him out of your sights and now he’s stuck in this hospital, stuck under  _ your  _ care, and he’s fucking suffering!” 

John unfurled his hand and, without any notice, struck Jefferson with his hand. The slap stung like hell, and was sure to leave a mark, and Jefferson’s mouth opened in shock as he felt the burning skin on his cheek. Jefferson’s eyes hardened and he slowly straightened his back, held his chin up, and glared down at John furiously.

John looked back as if he couldn’t believe he did that, either. His face flushed once more, this time in embarrassment, and he recoiled his arm to his chest. “He’s fucking  _ suffering, _ ” he echoed, but softer. He gulped: “Get him healed and get him out. Please. He doesn’t deserve to be here. He deserves to come home.”

Jefferson said nothing.

“John, go wait over by the cafeteria.” Mulligan pulled his friend back, and when the latter tried to protest he shot him an icy look. John trudged out of the hallway, looking once over his shoulder before shoving his hands in his pockets. He looked like a dog on the streets: tail between his legs, back a bit hunched, fear and aggression written on his face and posture. Once John was out of sight, Mulligan sighed, exasperated and tired. He ran a hand across his face. “John hasn’t been doing too hot. He’s starting to scare me. His anger’s never been this bad since…” Mulligan shook his head and breathed out a laugh. “Thanks for not kicking us out. And for taking care of Alexander the best you could. We know that nobody wanted him to get hurt.”

Jefferson nodded and adjusted his jaw before speaking. “It’s no problem. Thanks for not slapping me.”

Mulligan laughed and reached around Jefferson to pat his back as if he were a close friend. “No problem, man!” Mulligan retracted his arm and looked Jefferson in the eye. “But for real. Thanks.” He tilted his head up a bit. “We’ll come back tomorrow to see Alexander, if that’s alright.”

Jefferson’s mind flashed to John and the mark that’s certainly on his cheek now. “Sure,” he agreed nonetheless. “Just… make sure John calms down a tick before you come back.”

Mulligan nodded and turned to leave the hallway. Jefferson’s head was swimming with questions, but he said nothing. Instead, he shot a sparing glance to Alexander’s room before shaking his head and turning to go into his office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone plays overwatch here.... tell me who u main i'm curious
> 
> also 〳 ͡° Ĺ̯ ͡° 〵 what is all of this suspicious activity going on 〳 ͡° Ĺ̯ ͡° 〵 whwhwhwhat it's the new whodunnit


	10. home is where the italian food is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just want to apologize for the wait!! i had to undergo surgery and, while it was grueling and uncomfortable, i am healing very well!! i never want to do that again but unfortunately i might have to  
> this might not be that long either, because i really need to rest
> 
> again, my sincerest apologies. please enjoy!!!
> 
> as a postscript: the tags have been edited.

_“Could you give us descriptions of the attacker?”_

_“Yes,” replied Alexander, his eyes narrowed as he tried to remember. “There were two. One tall, one short. They were both kind of skinny. One had a scar on his cheek.”_

_The police officer scribbled on their notepad, nodding their head in acknowledgement. “Is that all you remember?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Now, your doctor — the man who found you directly after the attack — he stated that you said something to him that he couldn’t understand. Could you tell me what that was?”_

_Alexander tried to remember what he said to him, and suddenly it clicked. He did mutter something to him, something he knew he wouldn’t understand but tried to get out anyway._

_“I told him, ‘I saw Burr.’”_

* * *

After a few days, Alexander was officially and finally discharged from the Liberty Hospital. As per usual, Alexander was pushed out in a wheelchair, his legs too weak to carry himself after laying in a bed for so long. As if on cue, he felt infinitesimally tired than he was before; his shoulders slumped, his hands fell to his lap, and though he was happy that he was leaving such a terrible place, he couldn’t help but look back at the tall and sleek building feeling as if he was forgetting something. Nevertheless, he smiled weakly at John Laurens as he beamed back at him, speaking rapidly about their home and how glad he was that Alexander was coming.

“You know, I forgot that one of our friends actually _worked_ at that hospital,” John said, but afterwards made a face akin to frustration and disgust: “I mean, he’s not really our friend. He was in college before he ran to the farthest medical school and broke contact with us all.”

Alexander blinked. Did he know him? “Who’s the friend — or acquaintance?”

John scoffed, puffing so hard that a strand of his curls flew from his face to the side. “Aaron Burr. I swear, he’s such an ass. Not even a goodbye. I finally see him after years after…” John faltered and ultimately changed the subject. “But I’m so glad you’re comin’ back home! Hopefully you can look around your room and finally sleep in it; even before this, you’d never sleep.”

Alexander didn’t want this conversation, but at the same time, he wanted to know more. He looked at the hospital again, then at John. “Was I in school?”

John shook his head. “No, we all got out a couple of years ago. Our friend group really split up after that. Some went to medical school or law school. But me, you, and Hercules?” John shrugged and dug his hand into his pocket, pulling out his keys to his car. With a click, the car beeped, and John continued: “The three of us are inseparable. Or were. Hercules is dating this girl now and she’s a sweetheart, but he’s been spendin’ a lot of time with her.”

Alexander nodded and smiled once more, this one a bit more genuine than the last. John was a nice man, and he’d already regarded Alexander as a friend, so it wouldn’t be hard for them to get along hopefully. John opened the passenger door, then came to Alexander. He held him up, helped him to the car, and sat him down. John, instead of going to his own seat, leaned against the car door and continued talking.

“Valentine’s day is tomorrow, though, isn’t it? That’s pretty exciting.”

Alexander blinked, looked up at John, and replied, “It is? I thought it was January still.”

“Nope” – John popped the _p_ sound in the word – “I would imagine comin’ out from the hospital you’d be a bit confused and what not, but I don’t blame you. I don’t think any of us are doing anything, though, except watching some movies with Hercules and Peggy.”

“Peggy?”

“Hercules’ girlfriend. She’s a real doll, that one.” John sighed again, slumping onto the door for a moment before straightening quickly as if he’d just remembered something. “Oh, shoot — I almost forgot we were supposed to be at the house by ten. I swear, I’d forget my own head if it weren’t attached to my neck.” John closed Alexander’s door and crossed to his own, plopping himself to the set before keying the ignition. With a sputter, the car turned on and backed out of the parking space. During the entire ride home – though he didn’t know if it really _was_ home anymore, but it’s better than nothing – Alexander kept his head on the window. His eyes caught some of the cars passing by and wondered where they were going.

The apartments weren’t as far as Alexander expected, and he was surprised to find that he could remember something about it. The dull red paint and large windows were familiar somewhat, and even the small shrubs near the stairs seemed to spur something. Nevertheless, Alexander was led down the hallway with John, though at a slow pace. This seemed to make John uncomfortable, because he was usually running a mile a minute, and his mouth, too — but Alexander was frail and John cared more about him than himself. So, John walked behind him, walking slow though speaking fast.

“I’ve been cleaning a lot, so I apologize in advance if you see me worryin’ over a spill on the counter. Now that I think of it-” they were close to the door now, and John was pulling out his keys- “Do you want to rest today, instead of havin’ this great celebration of your arrival? I know Hercules might have one, but I don’t know if you’d be up for it. You never were a party person.”

Alexander smiled at the sentiment, happy that he was being considered. “No, I’m fine. I think I’d like to meet everyone before heading to bed. Maybe a snack, too.”

John seemed happy at that, and beamed wide. “Well, that’s great! Better cover your ears, though, ‘cause Hercules might just scream. Or faint, then Peggy would scream.”

Upon walking in the cold apartment, Alexander was happy to note that there wasn’t any screaming. There wasn’t a party, either, but it seemed like one with the way John was smiling. There was a lot of hugging, though, from Hercules and Peggy. Peggy smiled big at him after hugging, since it was the first time they’d met, and sat with him on the sofa as John and Hercules bickered over whether or not to order pizza or Chinese, or perhaps from the new Italian place down the street-

“You liking us so far?” Peggy couldn’t help but ask. She was happy to see him here, but a tinge nervous to make a good first impression. “Three people can be a lot to deal with everyday, but we can make it work, I’m sure. If we bother you at all please feel free to tell us, we don’t want to-”

“I’m sure I can handle it,” Alexander chuckled, watching the pink in her cheeks grow. “You guys have been nothing but kind to me since I’ve arrived, and I can’t thank you enough.”

And for the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening, the four stayed together, finally deciding on a meal and eating among themselves until they all tuckered out.

* * *

It was the eve of Valentine’s Day and there was red everywhere. Reds and pinks all over the damn hospital. This did not soothe Thomas’ headache in the slightest. He was still worked up about Alexander — what he said to him, garbled and mangled. How he was doing. Who attacked him. Burr. John and Hercules.

Jefferson’s head did not fare well with these burning thoughts. It didn’t help that he was hungover for the third time that week. He passed it off as migraines, and nothing more, though Schuyler had none of it. She didn’t pry, mind you, but she still reprimanded him (“You are a doctor, you know. You know the effects of alcohol.”) and eventually apologized (“I know this is hard for you, considering… My apologies.”). Schuyler was, as Jefferson noted, a saint. She would bring seltzer water to his office when he was laying in a puddle of pain and often gave him advice on how to get rid of particularly nasty headaches.

But as heavenly as Schuyler was, this pink-and-red-massacre was hell. There were more visitors - mostly young adults with red roses and chocolates and stuffed toys - and, thus, Jefferson was forced to interact more with people in general. Madison had noticed his irritated eye and brought him over to speak with.

“You alright?” he questioned, looking at his friend critically. “What, the Valentine’s blues getting to you or something?”

Jefferson shrugged, not wanting to comment. Instead, he took note of the people in the hall. “Busy day today.”

“I suppose.” Madison shuffled, obviously sensing the discomfort. They stood in near silence before Jefferson spoke again.

“You up for some drinks tonight? Figured you’ll be busy tomorrow with Dolly, so I hope it’s not too late to suggest it now,” He spoke in a hurry, with no hesitation as he continued. “Just like when we were younger.”

Madison smiled. “I suppose I can have a couple drinks tonight. Are be going to a bar or at your house?”

“My house, of course. But only if you bring the drinks."

"You have a deal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's the end of the year of the rooster event in overwatch and i got the new skin and sticker for mercy life is good

**Author's Note:**

> if you can, pleasepleaseplease leave kudos or comments to let me know that you enjoyed!! it helps me out a LOT by gauging how well my content is and of course, if you would like to contact me for any reason my email is _elimavidan@gmail.com !!!_ it's like messaging but you feel someone professional


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